


John Uncollared

by AlessNox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Brainwashing, Confusion, Disturbing, Emotional Manipulation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Pain, Revolution, Science Fiction, Submission, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For five years John has lived as a slave. Serving Sherlock Holmes has given him joy due to a brainwashing device (the internal collar) which gives him pleasure for every command that he follows, but when he is finally freed he must rediscover his purpose and his feelings in a world where all true instincts have been subverted. When asked if he will ever recover they say,</p><p>"All that I can promise you is pain."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slavery

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Свободный (John Uncollared)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6860788) by [EugeniaB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EugeniaB/pseuds/EugeniaB)
  * Inspired by [Collared](https://archiveofourown.org/works/485427) by [VelvetMace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMace/pseuds/VelvetMace). 



> Collared by Velvet Mace disturbed me.  
> Her world was so believable, I could imagine being trapped there.  
> I hate slavery!fics and I internalize them until my guts clench, and I feel sick.
> 
> I consider this story to be my therapy.  
> If you wish to read along with my self-journey then take these words to heart.
> 
> "All that I can promise you is pain."

It was just another happy day in the Holmes flat. Sherlock was between cases so he had begun a series of experiments on the effects of battery acid on human hair. He had gathered the hair in the morgue the night before. It would be more accurate to say that he had gathered the hairs the _evening_ before, because Sherlock no longer stayed out all night if he could help it. Not when he had John to come home to.

John was in the kitchen washing the dishes still dirty from breakfast. They had woken late that morning, and then after breakfast Sherlock had ordered John to straighten the upstairs room, so it was afternoon before he was able to get to cleaning the kitchen.

John looked over at Sherlock and smiled briefly. He was sitting at his microscope fully dressed with his plaid lab coat draped around him the same casual way that he had worn his silk dressing gown the night before. He was tall, thin, and handsome, and John loved him. All in all it wasn't such a bad life for a slave.

 

Things had been different in the before-time. John blotted most of that from his memory, forgetting as much of it as he could. It didn't do to dwell on things that couldn't be changed. Things that only brought him pain. Instead he thought of Sherlock, and how to give him pleasure. Mostly he wanted to do it because he loved Sherlock, but in the end pleasing Sherlock helped him as well because of the collar.

John had been a warrior, fighting for the freedom of all slaves. He had called himself an abolitionist. Mycroft Holmes had called him a terrorist and a murderer, and when he was captured he had him fitted with the internal collar. A collar that gave a slave pleasure whenever it followed a command from his master. He had resisted longer than most, but in the end, they had broken John, parading his shattered remains before the world. John Watson, the great terrorist, brought to heel by the internal collar. It was a great coup for Mycroft Holmes, and he had been so pleased with John afterward that he had given him to his brother to keep.

 Sherlock was not a bad master. He was narcissistic and rude and possessive, but he cared for John and protected him. He also ordered John around. Sometimes without thought, and sometimes on purpose because he knew it gave John pleasure.

 John put the last dish up on the shelf, filled the kettle, and put it on to boil. Then he searched through the cabinet for tea.  "It looks like we are low on tea," John said.

"What was that?" Sherlock asked looking up at John.

"Tea, I said that we need some."

"Then you'll have to get some more. John, put on your coat and go buy some tea."

John put down the almost empty box of tea, and walked over to put on his coat. As soon as he did so, he had to pause and close his eyes as a wave of pleasure overtook him. Somewhere deep inside his skull, a chip sent electrical impulses which directly stimulated the pleasure center of his brain whenever he followed his master's orders. His breath shuddered. Then he turned toward the door.

He stopped for a moment and looked over at the kettle. "What about your tea?" John said, "I should make that first shouldn't I?"

Sherlock was watching him with an intensity that spoke of arousal. Sherlock loved the look on John's face when the pleasure took him. You could say that he was addicted to it. Last night he had given command after command to John watching intently as each followed command caused waves of pleasure to rock him. John had thought that his heart might stop from it all, until Sherlock had commanded him to breathe, and that had helped until the pleasure from that command had kicked in as well.

As John gazed into Sherlock's eyes. He could tell that Sherlock was reliving that moment as well. Or perhaps he was thinking of what he would order John to do tonight, that is if he could wait that long. John decided that he had best buy some other supplies at the store while he still had the chance.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed into slits. "John, before you go. Make me some tea," he said, and John turned and went back into the kitchen taking out a mug just as the kettle began to boil. He added the tea bag and poured the water. He let it steep while he went to the refrigerator for the milk. The milk was low as well. He might need to make a list. He added sugar and milk and stirred making the tea just the way that Sherlock liked it.

When it was perfect the pleasure came. He felt his groin clench with the suddenness of it. "Bring me the cup, John," Sherlock said and John walked toward him shuddering as he stood beside Sherlock who placed a proprietary hand on his hip.

"Put it on the table." He did, another wave of pleasure. Sherlock's hand tightened pulling him closer, microscope forgotten.

"Kiss me, John," he said and John bent down to give him a kiss. The combination of Sherlock's lips and tongue with the pleasure from the collar made John's knees waver. Sherlock pulled him closer and sat him on his lap giving him several more commands, to stroke his hair, kiss his ear, and look into his eyes, until John was a wreck in his arms.

Sherlock kissed him again before looking into his eyes. He looked back and pleasure took him again. Sherlock's eyes widened and his lips curled into a smile. "I almost don't want to let you go now," he said, "but if I don't, that command will fester and make you uncomfortable so that you won't enjoy it fully, and I won't get the pleasure of watching you completely fall apart."

"I can wait to go to the store if that's what you want," John said.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed again and the tip of his tongue rested between his two slightly parted lips as he thought. Then he sighed, pushing John to his feet. "No, go to the store first. I still have this set of hairs to catalog, and the anticipation of imagining what I'm going to order you to do next will make it that much more satisfying for you. So go."

With regret, John stepped away from Sherlock. He walked over to the mirror and combed his hand through his hair to straighten it. Adjusting his jacket to make sure that he looked as neat as possible. The desire to hurry to the store so that he could feel the satisfaction of obeying one of Sherlock's requests filled him, but he held back relishing the discomfort that denial brought him. These moments were his guilty pleasures. The last remnants of his rebellion. Fighting back, however briefly, only made it sweeter when he did finally surrender. And surrender he always did. Always.

John looked back once to see Sherlock engrossed in the study of his hair samples before jogging down the stairs and out onto the street. He walked down the sidewalk enjoying the sunshine and the illusion of freedom that it gave him. John was a slave, but he didn't wear a visible collar. Most people didn't even know he was a slave. Gone were the days when people would glare or spit on him as he passed by. Dressed as he was in his green jacket and expensive trainers, no one could tell him from a freeman.

He turned into an alley on his way to the Tesco, and was startled to find the path blocked by a black van. He stood to the side to let the van pass, and the door slid open. Three masked men jumped out and rushed toward him. Startled, he kicked one in the back of the knee bringing him down before delivering a punch to the second, only to be downed by the third who had stuck a needle into his neck. He reached up, pulled it out, and tossed it to the ground as he staggered toward the end of the alley. Everything started to become fuzzy then, and the way ahead was only a hazy light when he started to fall. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.


	2. Recovery

The sound of a steady beeping was the first thing that he heard as he came back to consciousness. He recognized the sound as a heart monitor, and so he knew that he was in a hospital even before he opened his eyes. He looked around the unfamiliar room, and discovered that he was strapped down in a hospital bed. The equipment was top of the line, and although he could see no evidence of injury on his body, he had a horrible headache that he knew must be very bad because he could still feel the grogginess that showed that he was on heavy doses of pain medication.

 The door opened and a woman came into the room. She stood beside his bed. It took John a few minutes to focus on her, and a few more minutes to remember her, "Carol? Carol Mendez is that you?"

The smile that she gave him was genuine.

"John," she said, "I'm so glad that you remembered. We weren't really sure that we would succeed with the operation. We were afraid that you might end up a vegetable. You see, John, you've just had brain surgery." She reached over and undid the straps on his wrists.

 "Brain surgery?" John said.

 "Now bear with me, John. I have to ask you to do a few tests to see if it worked. Are you up to that now?"

 John's vision was still going in and out, and the pain in his head was a dull constant now, but he nodded.

 "Good," she said, "Now hold out your hand."

 John lifted his left arm stretching it toward Carol. It felt heavy. He was indeed on heavy medication.

 "That's wonderful John, now place it back down." John did so, and Carol pulled out a penlight and flashed it into his eyes. "So, how do you feel, John?"

 "Fine," John said, his voice hoarse suggesting that he had been out for a long, long time.

 "Alright John, we're going to play you something. Try to stay calm, okay?" Carol fished a recorder out of her lab coat pocket and pushed the button.

"Put out your hand, John," a deep, rolling voice said. Sherlock's voice. At first he was in shock. He hadn't expected to hear that voice here. He put out his hand waiting for the wave of pleasure to overcome him but there was nothing. Nothing. No feeling at all, except the ever present dull pain in his head, and the weight of muscles unused to moving.

 She pressed the other button. "Say my name, John," Sherlock's voice said, and it was almost too much for John. He didn't know where he was or who had him. Carol couldn't be involved with Mycroft could she. Could she?

 "Say it!" Carol said, "say his name."

"Sherlock," John said and felt nothing again. So used was he to feeling pleasure at Sherlock's every command, that the absence of it felt like a slap in the face. When had he become so addicted? He had thought that he was made of sterner stuff, but it was only the shock of it's absence that kept the tears from coming.

 She pressed the button again "Heel, John!" Sherlock's voice yelled, and he winced. Then sat still.

 "How do you feel, John? What do you feel when you obey his commands?"

"Nothing," John said, "I feel nothing."

"Good!" Carol said smiling broadly, "Thank heavens it worked. Lay back down and rest," she said reaching out to press a button that would dispense a sedative into his IV tube.

"Wait!" John said, "Where am I? What am I doing here?"

Carol patted his arms. "Later, John," she said, "You just woke from surgery today. You need to sleep now. Everything will be revealed in time. For now, just know that we are very happy, and that it is a great day. A great day for the resistance."

 

What? John thought just before the medicine hit his system and he drifted off to sleep.


	3. Revelations

The next time John woke, he was in a regular bed with blankets. There was a nightstand beside him and a lamp. The walls were beige and bare of pictures. He moved, and found that there was an IV attached to his arm. It was on a metal pole with wheels. There was no other medical equipment in the room.

John reached up and touched his head. He wore a bandage. He ran his hand around the bandage to find that his hair had been shaved, but there was at least a centimeter's growth. They must have kept him sedated for a long time. He didn't know how long it had been since he was abducted, but he would bet that it was over a week. Probably more like two weeks since that time. He sat up, and his body felt sluggish. He stood and put a hand on the IV holder walking slowly around the room.

There was a dresser. He opened it to find some clothes: socks, pants, shirts, trousers. There was a bathroom: White tile with a plain white canvas shower curtain. A toilet, a bidet, a sink. The bidet suggested France, or at least some place that was NOT England.

There were toiletries: soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, hair gel, comb, brush, lots of good that would do him now.

The towels were white.

He checked the door to find that it opened out into a larger flat. A sofa, brown. A desk with paper, pencils, pens. A kitchen with tea kettle, tea pot, assorted flat wear, but no sharp knives. It was plain, but this seemed like a perfectly average and comfortable flat, except for two things. The exit door had no handle, and the flat had no windows. Not in any of the rooms.

There was a buzzing sound, and the door opened. John could see a tall guard standing outside as Carol walked in. "John," she said smiling, "I see that you're up. How do you like your flat?"

"This is my flat?" John asked, "How long will I be staying here?"

Carol smiled, but did not answer.

"I notice that there are no knives in the kitchen," John said.

"Oh, I was sure that there were," she said concerned.

"Butter knives, but no cooking knives."

"Oh, you won't need to worry about that," she said, "we'll be providing your food."

 "And who are 'we'?" John asked.

"We are your friends," Carol said.

"Friends don't lock friends into rooms with no windows with a guard on the door."

Carol looked into John's eyes, her mouth stiff. "Yes they do, John. They do if they have as much at stake as we do. Please, John, take a seat and I'll explain."

John lowered himself onto the couch, glad that they had put some trousers on him under his hospital gown. He held his arm carefully so that the IV would not pull out. "Please Carol, tell me what's going on. It's been ages since we last met. Back then, you didn't care much for the resistance."

Carol chuckled, "You're right. I remember we had some arguments about it. And when you went missing and they said that you'd gone AWOL, I didn't believe it...that is, until I heard about the attacks. I can recognize your touch, John. You are a tactical genius. You know that don't you?"

"Well, I wouldn't call myself that. I did get caught, and I've seen a couple of real geniuses since then. In fact, I can't be sure that this isn't another one of their tricks. It would be just like Mycroft or even Sherlock to test my loyalty this way."

"No John, no," she said. "I know that it's hard for you. You've been terribly abused for a long time. No one could expect you to endure that kind of torture for so long and then just come back to your old job leading the resistance, but even though we can't expect that of you, we are asking you to do that nonetheless."

"What? You want me to be your leader? But, I betrayed you. Mycroft tricked me. Got me to write a letter and gave it one of his spies, or did they realize it in time? Did Depaul get away?" John leaned forward hope flooding his eyes, but Carol's mouth turned down.

"No John, Depaul and all his men, the entire French cell, was captured and executed years ago. Have you had access to the news in your ...imprisonment," she said using that delicate word to keep from having to call him a sex slave or any of a number of other derogatory terms that might have come to mind.

"Well, not very much. Mas...uh...Sherlock unsubscribed to the newspaper years ago. He said that Mycroft's people never put any real news in it anymore. I really haven't heard of much of anything other than what he has said and glimpses that I catch from conversations or shows on the internet or the telly."

Carol's face lengthened in pity. "Well, since you were captured there have many new changes. Your...conversion has been a heavy blow to the abolitionist movement. The way that you were seemingly converted from a hardened fighter to a submissive sheep has gotten much news coverage. They've used it as a reason to switch to the more "humane" internal collar in almost all cases. In less than three years, the punishment collar is all but gone.

John clutched his hand. He knew how much he was to blame. How he had been the face of the new slave class, seducing the slave owners and the populace with the vision of a perfectly loyal, perfectly brainwashed slave. He hung his head.

"At first, it seemed almost a good thing. The traditional slave trade broke. Hundreds of slaves were freed as people switched to hidden collars. The government offered the collar as an option to those facing the death penalty. Many factory jobs became pay again and the economy boomed as more people had jobs. At first we couldn't see what was happening.

"It started with hardened criminals such as murderers and sex offenders. The collars, the transfer out of prisons into servitude. Then it was offered to people who had lesser crimes. The problem is, whereas before, there was an end to a prison sentence, the collar was seen as a permanent solution because it cannot be removed

"Judges decreed it for repeat offenders. When we objected, they would show the offender after the collar was in place saying how much better their life was with the collar and how much they loved being a slave. It was disgusting. It was horrible...is horrible, and it's been getting worse.

"You know how I told you that I would never join the resistance. Well that changed when they took my little sister. She had some impulse control problems. She would get into fights and such. We went to bail her out one day and found that she was gone. She had been judged a repeat offender, collared, and sold. The records were sealed, and they refused to tell me where she was, but I found her. She was in the house of some fat cat who lived in Pall Mall. I snuck in and talked to her. I told her that I would help her to escape but she refused. My little sister just about salivated at the thought of being fucked by that old fat man. I decided then and there that I would do whatever was necessary to end this evil once and for all. So I gathered my things and left the country."

"And went where?" John said.

Carol smirked, "The less that you know, the less that you can give away if we fail. This is a war, John, and you are a weapon in this war, a powerful weapon. They used you to cause great harm. We hope to show that the collar can be broken. If we can, many who have given up hope will rejoin our cause. With you as the face of the new resistance, we can drive this evil and those who perpetrate it out of power. Do you understand John? Do you understand what we want you for?"

John nodded, "I think that I do. But I have to warn you, that I'm not the same man. I can't plan things the way that I once did. I will stand with you, but as for now, I can't promise anything more."

"I wouldn't ask any more of you, John," Carol said before finally cracking a smile. "I know that's been a lot to take in, but I haven't seen to your needs. Is there anything you want? Food? Drink? A book?"

"None of that," John said, "I don't think that I can eat yet, but there is one thing that I would like.

"What is that?"

"Can you please take this IV out of my arm?"

Carol walked over to the corner and pulled out a medical bag that John had not seen. She took the IV out of his arm and put a bandage on the spot. "And just in case you are wondering, there are no medicines here that you could use to harm yourself. We can't have you committing suicide. It would ruin the vast investment that we put into this place to treat you and keep you safe."

"I see," John said rubbing his arm above the spot where it had been going numb, "That's why there are no knives.”

"Yes, and I do feel obligated to tell you that we won't let you fall into enemy hands again. If you are captured, we will kill you rather than let them return you to the way you were."

John looked up into Carol's eyes and saw the look of resolve. It was then that he noticed the way that she sat, slightly forward to keep from sitting on the weapon concealed at her back. If the operation hadn't worked. If he had fought her, and tried to escape, she would have killed him herself. A warmth filled him at the thought, and he smiled.

"Thank you, Carol. Thank you."


	4. Aftershocks

_The feel of Sherlock's skin against his own, his hair. His eyes staring at John. Watching as John writhed, as he cried out in pleasure. His mouth issuing commands so fast that pleasure piled on pleasure until it began to feel like pain._

_He rushed forward covering Sherlock's mouth with his own to get him to stop talking. Using his hands and his mouth to make him so distracted that he couldn't say anything else. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's narrow waist and rode him knowing that there would be punishment later, but relishing this moment of peace, of power. But it was short lived._

_"HEEL!"_

_Pain roiled through his body making all of his muscles seize up as if he had tetanus. His eyes stared into the face of Mycroft Holmes, as he hit John with a whip. John could not move, flinch, or resist._ " _This is for your own good_ ," Mycroft said, " _Abolitionism will only hasten the day the Empire shatters into a hundred unstable factions. A new dark age for all. You don't want that do you?”_

  _The whip hit him again, and somehow the physical pain was less than the emotional pain caused by his words. Less than the pain of no longer being with Sherlock._

_Sherlock stood before him naked. His pale white skin contrasting with his dark pubic hair. He reached out with his arms. "John come to me! You know you still want me! You know you still love me! Kiss me now!"_

_And John wanted to, but the guard was holding his arms behind his back, and Carol held a knife. "I've got to save you from that evil man," she said, and she plunged the knife into John's side spilling his blood on the floor. Then John laughed. "Finally, Finally, I have escaped!" he cried, and then his eyes opened. He had rolled off of his bed._

 

John shivered. Perhaps it was from cold, perhaps something else. He had had a nightmare. He rose and went to the bathroom running the water as he climbed inside to wash away the stress. He placed his head against the wall and let the water run down over his head reaching up suddenly to look for the bandage that someone had removed in his sleep. He felt the scar right over his squamous suture. Somehow they had found a way to reverse the procedure. He'd have to ask them exactly how they did it, but now, he couldn't talk to anyone. His legs were shaking. He didn't know that he could stimulate the pleasure center himself just by dreaming. Just by dreaming ...of Sherlock.

 The first time that he had seen Sherlock was when Mycroft had shown him his picture as they sat in a private jet. They had met in Sherlock's flat. Mycroft had introduced John as Sherlock's new assistant. John had thought at the time that he might have actually liked Sherlock if they had met socially, but things didn't work that way when you were a slave. There was no _liking_. There was only **obeying**. What he had felt as love was only a bit of crossed signals. Purposely crossed signals. Sherlock was not his love. He was a slave owner who had raped and humiliated him on a daily basis.

 He knew this intellectually, but in his dreams, he only wanted to be back in Sherlock's arms. To have Sherlock order him around and make love to him. To feel Sherlock rubbing the sweat from his brow as he said, "You were magnificent, John! You were amazing!" Nothing had given him more pleasure in his life than to know that he had given Sherlock pleasure. He bashed his head against the wall.

 "All of that was a lie!" he cried, the tears mingling with the water from the shower, "He used me. He didn't care for me. He didn't love me any more than he loved his favorite pair of shoes or his scarf. I was his possession. I was useful to him. By now he's got another."

And John imagined a young man with Sherlock. Blond like him, but younger, and taller, and baby faced. He imagined Sherlock putting his hands on the man and his face turned red with jealousy. He beat his hands against the tiles and slid down into the tub putting his face in his hands as he cried.

 

"I HATE Sherlock Holmes!" he said, but his heart refused to believe him.


	5. Resistance

In London, Sherlock rushed into Mycroft's office, his coat flapping behind him. He put his hands on Mycroft's desk as he said, "John is missing!"

 Mycroft looked up from the stack of papers on his desk. He gestured to the chair. "Have a seat Sherlock. Can't you see that I'm busy."

 "Busy? Forget that trivial stuff. Someone has kidnapped John."

 "I hardly call manipulating the Korean elections trivial."

 "He disappeared a few blocks away from my flat. I retraced his path, and found his glove in an alley. There had been a fight. Three of them attacked him, they must have used drugs because he collapsed. Then they dragged him into a van. Did you hear me, Mycroft? John has been kidnapped!"

 "Of course I heard you," Mycroft said in a measured voice, "With the way that you are carrying on, you can probably be heard in Westminster."

 "I traced the van as far as the port, but then I lost him. He must have been taken on a ship. We have to find him. We've got to get him back."

 Mycroft sighed, putting the papers into a file and pushing them aside. He reached into a drawer pulling out a blue file folder, "A ship called The Lion Shark left across the channel this afternoon, but never arrived at its destination. When you first texted me about the abduction, I had my men look over the CCTV data. They found the van parked on the dock. I have dispatched the Royal Navy to intercept the ship and search it. As of yet, there has been no word, but they will find it, and when they do, I will inform you of it, so please refrain from these...hysterics."

 "But John needs me!"

 Mycroft looked up, staring into Sherlock's worried face. "I suppose that what you meant to say is that you need John. If you are that desperate for attention, I am sure that I can dispatch someone to take up his duties in the meanwhile."

 "No, I don't want one of your greasy spies in my flat. I want John! No one can take his place."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a stern look. "Sherlock, what is the matter with you? You can't truly have begun to care for him? Can you? Caring is not an advantage. Certainly not for a slave."

 Sherlock turned his head away as he said, "It's not like that...It's just...John is...John is mine! He is my property, and I must get him back."

"I agree," Mycroft said. "We can't have our poster boy for the new era stolen away from us. What will people think of a country that can't even hold on to its own prizes, for that is what John is, a prize. If you want him back then go home, and leave me to my work. The sooner you get out of my hair, the sooner I can resolve this issue and bring your beloved pet back to you."

 Sherlock jumped a bit at the mention of John as pet, but he said nothing. He simply turned, and left the office.

He went home to his empty apartment and continued with his work.

 

 

***

 John also continued his work.

 He stood inside a portable command center beside Carol and Franklin, the new military leader for the resistance. Franklin was a black man with a bearing that suggested that he had trained as a policeman. His accent was Caribbean, and he could not have been older than twenty-six. The soldiers in the command center were even younger, and John could not mistake the way that they turned their faces to him with questioning looks unsure of what he would do.

 Now he was simply standing here, watching, and lending moral support as Franklin (first or last name he did not know and did not care to know) told the men what to do. The cameras focused on their backs as the team of soldiers rushed through the back door of the "retraining hospital" as they called it. One man wrapped a wire around the neck of a guard garotting him as the rest passed through the door.

he watched the screen as they killed the nurses and doctors in the operating theatre. They had been preparing for surgery, but they had not yet begun. The victim lay there asleep unaware of the chaos of death that surrounded her. Then two guards entered. The bright red diamonds on the collar of their uniforms identified them as collared slaves. The men pulled out their guns.

 "Don't shoot!" John called out, and Franklin relayed the order. the men leaped onto the guards and immobilized them. Paralyzing darts were used to take the guards alive. Their bodies were dragged away back to the van. Another guard picked up the sleeping woman and took her as well. They fled before they were noticed.

 Carol looked over at John, "You told us to stop. Why did you ask that those men be spared?"

 "Those men are slaves," John said. "They can't control what they do. They should be pitied not killed."

 "You are right," Franklin said, "We are not here to kill slaves. We are here to put a stop to those who work to create more slaves. Congratulations team on a successful mission."

 The men around the room smiled then, and more than one of them glanced at John with increasing respect. Carol grabbed John's arm and pulled him out of the room. In the quiet of the hallway she asked him, "So now you have seen our operation in action, what do you think of it?"

 "I think that those doctors and nurses were just doing what they were ordered to do," John said.

 "What they were ordered to do?" Carol said angrily, "Is that what you thought of the ones who put that thing in your head? Those men and women weren't slaves. They didn't have collars manipulating them. They chose to do what they did to others. In my book that makes them guilty, and they deserve to die."

John replied, "I think that we will have a harder time convincing people that we are right if we keep killing. These people have fathers and mothers and children. How can we convince them to join our cause if all they can see is revenge?"

 "John, this is all that I know how to do. Do you have a better way?"

 John turned away, "I think that perhaps I do."


	6. Leader

The factory was loud. One large room full of men and women monitoring machines. All of the workers wore the brown coats with the red diamond that now served to identify the new slave class. John walked into the room wearing the blue diamond of command. He adjusted the amplifier at his mouth and spoke, "Hello," he said, "Do you know what this diamond means?" They looked at him and nodded. "It means that I am your temporary supervisor. My name is John. You will put your machines on automatic, and come with me now."

The slaves did as they were told. They lined up in the aisles awaiting further instruction. "Outside of this door is a bus." John said, "You will board the bus and await instructions. The secondary supervisor will be there to take you to your new assignment. The men and women walked out without questioning his authority, all of them but one, a young man, not more than twenty stood beside his post and refused to move. (What could he possibly have done to be a slave so young?) .

 "You heard me," John said, "go!" The boy started to move, then he stopped. "What is bothering you, son?" John asked.

 "But sir," he said, "If we all leave, there will be no one to fix the equipment if it gets out of alignment. We are needed because the automatic machines need periodic adjustment. If we all leave at once, before the hour is out, the factory will run into a problem and lock up. It may even get a blockage and destroy the equipment."

"That is not your concern," John said, "Perform as ordered, and you will be rewarded."

 "But sir," he said, "you are not my supervisor. In fact you are John Watson the former abolitionist. The first to be converted by collar."

John smiled, "Not quite the first, but certainly the most prominent. Tell me son, why were you made a slave?"

 My mother was accused of a theft that she did not do. Because she had once shoplifted, she was called a repeat offender and was to be collared. I broke into the holding area and helped her escape."

John looked at the the boy. Then he looked up at Franklin who stood at the door gesturing for them to go. The charges had already been planted. "What's your name?" he asked the boy.

"I'm Casper. Casper Engel."

John smiled, and put an arm around Casper's shoulder. "Well Casper, we won't have to worry about the machines going out of alignment because before they get a chance to, we will blow this factory to Hell."

 "But," Casper said.

"Come Casper, I am your supervisor and I say come. You are just the sort of man that we need in our organization. You are much too clever to work in this doomed factory," They walked out together.

Ten minutes later, a horrible explosion rocked the buildings for miles around. The news was full of the harrowing industrial accident. All slaves were reported killed.

*** 

Sherlock entered Mycroft's office. Mycroft was frowning. "Have you heard any news about John. It's been over a month!" Sherlock cried angrily.

 "Oh I have news," Mycroft said, "I have news and it is far from good. You know that factory explosion in Carcassonne?

 "I may have heard something about it. All the slaves were lost in the fire."

 "All the slaves were lost, yes, but not in the fire. We've isolated some pictures from just before the explosion, I am sure that you will find them interesting."

He slid the photographs across the desk, and Sherlock froze, focusing on a fuzzy camera image of a man in a supervisor suit with very short blond hair. He was talking to a boy, his arm around his shoulder. He had a scar on his head.

"The relevance of that scar can not have been lost on you."

 "They've found a way to reverse the conditioning," Sherlock said.

 "Indeed, and without the collar to control him, John Watson has gone back to his terrorist ways."

 "There must be some mistake," Sherlock said.

 "Oh there is no mistake," Mycroft said bitterly. "This explosion has John Watson's name all over it. I told you that I studied his methods for months before his capture. Rescuing the slaves before blowing the factory. This is his doing. Before his abduction, the resistance did not care how many people they hurt or killed. It is John Watson's compassion which designed this attack. He has not only rejoined the abolitionists, he has become their leader again.

"The old terrorists were no real threat. Their indiscriminate violence did more to garner public support for our side than it did to theirs, but with John Watson in command. Not only will he spare the lives of slaves, and therefore increase the good feeling toward the abolitionists, his very presence as a man who once was controlled by the collar will give them hope that the collar can be reversed. It will make the public fear that the treatment is not permanent in those criminals that we have declared safe. This is a terrifying blow by the opposition. If this works out, all that I have worked for will be destroyed. John Watson must be killed."

"No!" Sherlock yelled, "John is my slave. The scar could be for show."

"But the strategy..."

"If I were there to command him, he wouldn't be able to plan attacks. He would only do as I told him to."

"Don't be naive, Sherlock. John Watson has been freed of the collar. I did not think it possible, but if anyone could defeat the conditioning, it would be him. We've kept this under wraps for now, but we can't keep it quiet for long. I'm dispatching assassins to remove him."

"Wait!" Sherlock yelled, "If we could get him back alive, wouldn't that be better? You could grill him for information, find out about the terrorist cell. About where they took the slaves. If I could be taken to where he was. I know that I could get him under control. I could bring him back."

 "You never agreed with me taking John and interrogating him before, Sherlock. You seem desperate."

 "I just don't want you destroying my property," Sherlock said, "Give me some time, a little time to get him back."

 "Time?" Mycroft questioned, "I can give you twenty-four hours. After that, I will send out the assassins."

 "But it may take longer than that to reach John."

 "I shouldn't give you that much time as it is."

 "But when I have him, I'll need time to talk to him. How will the assassins know not to shoot him?"

"You must be with him at all times. If you take your hand in his, then they will not shoot, but this is ridiculous," Mycroft said sitting back in his chair, "they will kill you if you find them. They are terrorists."

 "Mycroft, you know that I am the only one with any hope of salvaging this situation. Send a coded message, and find me a ship."

Mycroft glared at him and then sighed, "Very well, but do not assume that he will welcome you with open arms. You were his oppressor, not his lover."

"I was both, " Sherlock said, "And I will be again."

Sherlock strode out of Mycroft's office determined to get John back, but the image that kept running through his mind was one of John smiling at the young man. John with his arm around another man. " _How dare he!_ " Sherlock thought, " _John Watson is mine!_ "

 ***

"Are you sure?" Carol asked, "A shipment tonight?"

 "We broke the code and that's what it said," Franklin replied.

 "How many," John asked.

 "One hundred men and women."

 "Don't you think that the timing of this message is a bit convenient? This sounds like a trap to me," Carol said. "We pulled off a big heist thanks to your genius, John, but this is exactly what I'd expect them to do next. Give us a false lead to draw us in so that they can capture us all."

"But we can't ignore it. If it is true, then there are one hundred lives to be saved."

"Please remember that we hardly have the facilities to take care of the ones that we already have from the factory. What are we going to do with a hundred more?

 "Look," John said, "Both of you are right. We can't ignore the plight of a hundred people destined to be slaves, but it is quite possibly a trap."

 "Then what do we do?" Franklin asked.

"In times like this, we used to split the cell."

"Split the cell?" Carol said, "What do you mean?"

"It's what we used to do when things got too hot. We separate into two groups. Work independently without talking to each other. That way, if one group is captured or destroyed, then we haven't lost everything. We can reform when things cool back down. Franklin, you and Carol take the factory workers, and head for Switzerland. Luckily, the news said that all of the workers were killed, so no one is looking for them yet. Get them out before they close the border. I will take some of your men and free the hundred. They can stay where we have the factory workers now. If it is a trap, then only we will die. You can carry on."

 "But Doctor Watson, do you really think that it is that serious?" Franklin asked.

 "I do," John said, "I understand what you did by freeing me, and I am very grateful, but I have enemies, and something in my bones tells me that this is different."

"Then I defer to your wisdom," Franklin said. He blew a whistle, and all eyes turned toward him, "Now listen up! We are going to grey alert status. All of us, except yellow squad and green squad, will take the factory workers across the border using protocol fifty-seven. Yellow and Green squads will be under the command of Dr Watson, and they will raid The blue carbuncle which is arriving in port at 0800 tonight with a cargo of one hundred slaves. I need not remind you that the ship will be armed, and perhaps much more heavily than we expect. I wish that I could stay with you, to help you in this, but to survive we must be everchanging, always attacking and feinting. Follow your commander. I will return, God willing. To Freedom!"

 "To Freedom!" They all said their fists in the air.

 

That evening, The Blue Carbuncle landed on the dock with the sound of a foghorn. Two snipers sat with guns pointed on the gangplank. John Watson sat inside a darkened warehouse looking at the image of the boat on a tiny screen. A pistol in his hand. Someone had found him a Browning, and the weight of it brought back the memory of his days in Afghanistan when no one could rival his aim. He smiled. He had sent Casper along with Franklin, asking him to watch after the boy. They had plans to reunite in three weeks if they survived that long.

Guillaume, head of yellow team, wore the uniform of a dock inspector. He and his second walked up, clipboard in hand and talked to the captain of the ship. He waved his hand and yellow squad came up the plank disguised as dock workers readying the cranes for moving the cargo. Some divers from green team were coming up out of the water to enter the boat from the starboard side.

John waited, hand to the phone in his ear. They were on radio silence by his own command. They were only to send a message if one of several possibilities occurred. He half expected to hear the command " _Vatican Cameos_ " which told them all to immediately escape by the most direct path possible and to regroup two days later in several predetermined spots to await new orders. Perhaps that would be for the best.

 

Carol had refused to go with Franklin at first. She needed to go because she was a doctor, and they would need to operate on the slaves, but she had looked at him with eyes filled with concern and menace telling him that she would return soon. Her right hand man was standing close beside him now. John had no doubt that his orders were to shoot him if it looked like he would be captured.

Yellow team returned from their search of the ship. They talked to Guillaume who walked down the gangplank. He stood at the base of the ramp and called out the most surprising code imaginable **YoYo superfreight**. "Yoyo" meant that it was a false lead. There were no slaves on board, but "superfreight" meant that there were no guards, opposition, or evidence that this boat was anything other than a normal freighter. Then he said, "There is one passenger on board, sir, and he's asking for you."

The door to the warehouse slid open and Guillaume came in with most of yellow squad. He held the arm of a tall, dark-haired man in a long coat. It was Sherlock. He stood across the expanse watching as John came out of the shadows.

"Hello John," Sherlock said. "Stop this nonsense at once and come home with me."

John tensed for a second expecting the collar to kick in. First he felt relief that it did not, then a sense of disappointment. The sight of Sherlock was a physical shock to his system. He didn't know if he should kiss him or shoot him. "Bring him," John said, "and gag him."


	7. Confrontation

John stood before the metal door that led to his flat. They had housed him in an underground bunker deep underneath an office block. After listening to their arguments, he agreed that it was best that he remain here.

He turned to the guard, "Do not be startled by anything that you hear. Do not enter even if you feel that I am in peril. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances."

"Yes sir."

"You remember the exit code?" John asked and the guard nodded. "Then open it up."

John steeled himself before walking through the door which closed and locked behind him.

Sherlock was lounging on the couch. His coat hanging on the hook by the door. He sat up. His movements sinuous and seductive. He sighed as if he was bored. "John, when can we get this over with and go home? I've come for you now, so let's go."

John found it harder than he had thought to face Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock was an evil man, a slave owner, brother of the infamous Mycroft Holmes who had personally overseen to his psychological torture. Other people had secrets. Other people had privacy, but John's deepest feelings had been spread across the airwaves and the internet. His sexual experiences had been used to titillate slave owners. His obedience served to advertise the virtues of slavery, the joy of servitude, and the man who had controlled him and oppressed him was standing before him now. Why was it that all he wanted to do was to fall at his feet?

Conditioning. John had been conditioned like Pavlov's dogs. Sherlock had done it to him. Made him less than a man. For that he deserved to die.

Sherlock stood, sauntering over to stand in front of John. "You heard me," he said. "Let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere and neither are you," John said, "I don't think that you understand the situation that you are in. You are no longer my master. You were never meant to be. I was born a free man, and a free man I am again. It is you who is subject to _my_ mercy. You who are _my slave_ now."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said. "You can't possibly prefer your life here to our life together."

"I prefer freedom."

"That is a lie!" Sherlock said stepping forward until he loomed over John, their chests almost touching their lips inches apart. "How can you call this freedom? Living in rooms with no windows. In a flat with no door knob. You were happier with me. I made sure that you were happy. It was my hobby to see that you had as much pleasure as possible. You miss it don't you? The feeling it gave you when I called your name and ordered you to get down on your knees. You can't fake that. That was passion. That was pleasure. Wouldn't you like to have it again? You know that I would treat you well."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his lips parted. For a moment John felt the desire to surrender again like he had all of those other times. Then he stepped back, his mouth hard and firm. "No," he said.

Sherlock looked surprised. "I don't understand? You want me. You love me. You've told me so a dozen times."

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes wondering, not for the first time, how he really felt about John. He thought of turning away, but those eyes...inside of Sherlock, John suspected that their might be some good, so he tried to explain. "If we had met in another time, in another world, you and I might have been friends. In a world without slavery, a world without war we could have met and grown to love each other, because of our personalities, because of the things that we had in common. We would have learned to respect our differences and find joy in companionship, but that is not what happened.

"You never earned my love. You stole it. You pushed a button, and you made me want you. Don't flatter yourself that I loved you for your own merit. Given enough time I would have confessed love to anyone, even Mycroft."

Sherlock leaned back in shock. He turned and walked back to sit down on the couch. "John, make me some tea."

"Make it yourself," John snapped the anger finally finding him. "I always thought that of the two of you Mycroft was worst. But now I'm not so sure. You and your indifference. You only care for your own needs, and let the world go hang. People are having their wills taken away, and what do you care? As long as you have your tea, and your work, and your little John to fuck, you are fine. The world is full of people like you who let evil and injustice exist because they are too lazy or too selfish to lift a hand to save a life even when they are begging them for help. You don't care about anyone but yourself?"

"You know that's not true!" Sherlock said rising to his feet. "I came here for you. I braved Mycroft's disapproval and getting killed by terrorists to see you. To be with you again because I need you. I came here, because I love you! I know that you didn't chose this. It's these people who are brainwashing you. Using your sense of duty against you. We were happy, truly happy together. I know you want to go back to that life. You don't want this life of violence and death. You want to help me with my cases. To blog about our lives together. If you don't want me to, I will never touch you again, but please come back with me. I know that you want to."

"You don't know what I want. You don't know _me_ at all. You never met the real me. You don't love me. You love the collar. I wish that I could give it to you so you could make love to it and let it give you joy, because I am no longer a slave, and I will NEVER be one again."

Sherlock walked toward him and John reached into the back of his belt pulling the gun out and leveling it on Sherlock who froze. "You don't understand. How could you, coming from a life of privilege like you did? You were always taught that some people were better. They deserved more rights, more power than others. But no one deserves to be treated as property. We are all human, and we are all equal _.”_

"John?" Sherlock asked, "Why do you have the gun? Do you want to kill me?"

John's hands shook, "Yes," _No._ "You are my oppressor. If I kill you then you can't get into my head anymore. You can't haunt my dreams anymore, make me want you."

Sherlock walked slowly forward. "You still want me?"

"No!" _Yes, oh yes!_

Sherlock walked forward until the muzzle of the gun was touching just below his heart. "Then shoot me," Sherlock said, "Because I've been going insane since the moment that you left me. I can't live without you, John. Come back and live with me again, and I will never order you around if you don't want me to. Never do anything that you don't want me to. But if you won't come, then you might as well kill me because I have no life without you."

John lowered the gun and dropped it to the floor. Tears filled his eyes. He reached up a hand to wipe them away, but Sherlock's hand was there before him rubbing his face as he moved forward to kiss him on the forehead. John looked up, and Sherlock was smiling, "You're amazing. You're magnificent," he said, and John melted into his arms surrendering himself to Sherlock's kiss.


	8. Surrender

John awoke and thought at first he was in a dream. He was naked, and pressed up against him, spooning against his back, was Sherlock. He ran his tanned hand across Sherlock's smooth white skin feeling the beauty of it, before the guilt hit him. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. Sherlock sat up and placed his hands around John's waist. "John, John, what's wrong? Why are you sad?"

 

John sat up tilting his head back so that it rested on Sherlock's shoulder. He sighed because it felt so good, and then he clenched up again. "I thought...I had hoped that I could beat this conditioning. That my mind could overcome the weaknesses of my body, but I cannot. Like always, I surrender to you."

"You surrender to me?" Sherlock said, "It's the other way around."

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Don't you remember what I was like when we first met? Sex never interested me. I was quite content to ignore it, and then Mycroft demanded it. It was very, very difficult for me to get past my own personal aversion to the act, but you were so... amazingly responsive. You enjoyed everything so much. It isn't sex that I enjoy, John. It's giving you pleasure. And over the last five years giving you pleasure has taken up more and more of my time. You dominate my thoughts. Rule my existence. Whenever we have sex, I am surrendering to you.

"I didn't think that it would work this time. That I could give you pleasure without the collar. You're right, John. I don't know you. I haven't felt your honest emotions, known your true feelings until tonight."

John turned and rested his arms on Sherlock's shoulders. His were still wrapped around John's waist. "So tell me, what are my true feelings?"

Sherlock leaned forward and touched the tip of his tongue to John's ear lobe. John squirmed a bit and then pushed Sherlock back down on the bed climbing on top of him, the beginnings of an erection pressing down on his chest. Sherlock gave a mischievous grin. "The truth is that you would have been attracted to me, even without the collar. Oh, if I could only have met you before you went to Afghanistan! What would life have been for us if you had never worn the collar?"

John lowered himself down and wrapped himself around Sherlock's body. "Don't be ridiculous Sherlock. We would never have met."

"Please don't talk that way, John. You remind me of Mycroft, and that is a decided turn off."

"Yes," John said his erection softening as he looked. John sat up in bed, "So tell me. What is Mycroft up to these days?"

"He also has been thinking a great deal about you, unfortunately."

John narrowed his eyes. "What is he planning to do about it?"

"He plans to assassinate you before it becomes widely known that you are leading the resistance again."

"If he plans to assassinate me, then why send me you? Why allow his own brother to become a hostage?"

"I insisted."

"And your brother has such a good record of conceding to your demands. Does he?"

"John, he didn't want to let me go, but he knows that I am the only one who might be able to bring you back to our side. He was willing to let me try. You see my brother doesn't want to lose you. he greatly admires you, you know."

John laughed, "Mycroft admires me?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Not one in a million has the strength of will to resist this kind of brainwashing. To survive conversion not once, but twice. To be able to articulate your feelings in words and convince others of your sincerity. To be able to lead others despite having publicly failed in the past. Oh yes, he admires you. You, John, are a sort of good luck charm. I believe that he thinks that whatever side you fall on will be the one to win."

"I'm not going back, Sherlock. Mycroft is too good at manipulation. I won't let myself fall into his clutches a second time. Besides, the members of resistance have sworn that they would kill me rather than let me go back, and I can't find it in me to object to their point of view. You used me. Both of you used me for your own political agenda. You cracked me open and exposed me to the world, and neither one of you has expressed a second of remorse for my pain." John rolled on his back. Sherlock rolled on his side and placed a hand on John's chest, "I hoped to spare you pain, as much as possible. I hoped to keep you whole."

"You could have set me free," John said.

"To do what? To do what you are doing now? Mycroft would have had you back in a heartbeat, and he wouldn't let me see you again. I couldn't let that happen. You were safe with me. Come back. If I promise to keep you out of trouble, he will believe me. He will let you stay."

"He would fit me with another collar, and make sure that it could not be removed this time. Can you imagine, Sherlock, what it was like for me to have the collar? Can you understand what it is like for someone to be able to control the deepest desires of your brain. To control your very will, so that you can't tell what thoughts are your own and what are not?"

"No, I can't imagine it, John," Sherlock said. "Empathy was never my strong suit. All that I've learned about it, I've learned from you."

John turned to face Sherlock. Their heads resting on the same pillow. "What empathy have I shown you?"

"I've had years to watch you. To witness your compassion. You've bent down to talk to children. You've treated people who were in pain. You did things for me without me ordering, just because you wanted me to be happy. And when you blew up the factory, you took the time to make sure that everyone was safe first. You are a compassionate man, an empathetic man. I am not compassionate. I am not empathetic, but I see your example and am impressed by it. Let us start again, John. Let us meet simply as two men, forget the past between us. Do you think that you can do that? Are you compassionate enough to forgive even me for what I have done to you?"

"I don't know," John said, "I guess that we can try."

John sat up and Sherlock did. Then John reached out his hand. "Hello," he said. "My name is John."

Sherlock took his hand, and shook it. He did not release it. "I'm Sherlock," he said.

"Pleasure to meet you," John said, and he smiled.

Sherlock's face went slack, and he tugged on John's hand leaning forward to capture his lips in a kiss.

Their first kiss as equals.


	9. Friendship

John rinsed off the razor and ran his thumb across his chin to check the shave before drying his face with a towel. He adjusted the collar of his shirt as he looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was starting to grow back. It was sticking straight up in pale, half-inch strands that were just now starting to cover his scar. It seemed that something about him was different. Then he realized that for the first time since his "rescue", his eyes were not red. He had slept like a baby last night.

It was only beginning to dawn on him that the collar was actually gone. In the last few days when he had felt pleasure, it was real pleasure. The pain that he had felt was his own pain. No one had given it to him or forced it on him. He had thought that he would never feel this way again.

John walked through the bedroom and into the living room. He could hear Sherlock in the kitchen. He poked his head around the corner, coming out a few moments later holding a cup. He was wearing the white terry-cloth robe that they bought for John. On him it was too short, exposing a large amount of leg, but John found that he didn't mind that much.

Sherlock handed the cup to John who looked into it, and then back up at Sherlock's expectant face. "What is this?" John said expecting him to say that it was some kind of experiment.

"Coffee, I made coffee," Sherlock said.

"You never make coffee."

"I just did. Don't you want it?" he asked.

John stared at Sherlock a moment in confusion. Last night, they had talked for a long time. This must be Sherlock's way of acknowledging the change. Of showing that between the two of them there was no longer a master and a slave, but only two souls journeying together on this Earth. John gave a brief smile, "Thanks," he said taking a sip. Then he frowned at the overpoweringly sweet sensation while humming disapprovingly, "I don't take sugar."

"You don't?" Sherlock said looking away disappointedly.

In the five years that they had been together, Sherlock had never once made John a cup of coffee, or tea for that matter. This was a big step, so John took another sip and smiled, "That's nice. It's good," he said and Sherlock hazarded a shy smile.

"You're welcome," Sherlock said, and John stared. "That is what I am supposed to say in this situation, isn't it? It's just I don't have much experience."

"No that's right. That's perfectly correct."

"I'm not the best at interacting with other people. I don't like many people, and I don't have anyone else that I'd want to spend time with just as...as you and I...what do we call each other now, colleagues?"

"Friends, Sherlock," John said. "We call each other friends."

There was a brief knocking sound, and the front door opened to reveal Carol. She strode through the door, "John..." she said, and then she stopped. She stared open-mouthed at the two of them sharing a cup of coffee, and then she turned and walked back out of the door.

John sighed, "This may take a bit of explaining," he said handing the cup to Sherlock before knocking six times on the door. (Three long knocks for O and three short knocks for S. The initials of _Open Sesame_. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the simplicity of the code.

He passed the guard and walked down the hallway, finding Carol leaning against the wall, facing away from him. She turned to him as he approached. "That's Sherlock Holmes. The man who calls himself your Master. What is he doing here?"

"You were right. That boat was a false lead. There were no slaves on board, only him. He wanted to see me. He told me that there is a plot to have me assassinated."

"No," she said her voice rising in pitch as she spoke, "Why is he here in your flat? He should have been put in a cell, in a cold, dark, damp, prison cell. After what he did to you. After what he made you do, how could you stand there next to him like two blokes who had just met for a coffee. Except, people who were meeting for a coffee would have had their clothes on. What have you been doing, John? What are you thinking? Did the surgery fail? Does he still control you? Why is he standing their half-dressed in your flat?"

"Carol, calm down."

"Calm down! I came here with some news that might help us to defeat bastards like him, and I find you...." Carol turned her face away and breathed out before continuing in a lower voice that was just as angry. "If I were you. If a man who had treated me like that man treated you, came to me here. I would have strangled him with my bare hands. I certainly wouldn't be sitting around sharing a coffee or tea or whatever it was you were doing."

"Then it's a good thing that I'm not you, isn't it?" John said.

"But that man!" Carol said pointing back down the hall.

"...is contained," John said. It's under control. He hasn't seen anything. He hasn't done anything. He's my problem, not yours."

"But _you_ are my problem," Carol said. "That man is a threat. I can't have him influencing you."

"I'll tell you if I'm being influenced, okay?" John said.

"What's wrong with you, John? Isn't it obvious? That man is a trap. A trap designed to stop you, personally. To make you less effective. It has to be. The false message. Who sent that? They meant for us to find him. They meant for you to find him. You can't just let him in. He's no good for you. Let me put him in a cell."

"Stop it Carol! You said that _I_ was leader, so listen to me. He's under control. I know that this is...difficult for you, but he has information that we can use. Information that we need, and I can get it from him better here than in an interrogation room. I've lived with that man for five years. I can tell when he's lying. To me, he is not a threat.

"You're blind, John. Let me handle him. We can get the information from him."

"I told you, I'm handling it! And I don't want to hear about anyone else going in there to speak to him. I don't want anyone else touching him. Nobody touches Sherlock but me. And before you get any thoughts in your head about how killing him would be for my own good, I want you to know that if anyone so much as harms a hair on his head. I'm done. I'm done with all of you.

"You chose _me_ to run this operation, and I'm running it. I'm giving you my name and my expertise despite the fact that you house me in a cage with a lock on the door and leave your lackeys with instructions to shoot me if I look like I'm leaving you, I just take that in stride. But there is one thing that I won't take, and that is you thinking that you have an idea what it is I'm doing with the man that I know a hell of a lot better than you do. Do you understand me? Carol, do you get my meaning?"

"Yes," she said her mouth in a tight line.

"Yes?" John asked.

"Yes, John I do."

"Good. Now I have a job for you. I want you to scan his clothes. They might have planted something on him. We don't want Mycroft and his cronies showing up on our doorstep do we?"

"No," Carol said defeated.

"And tell everyone that I want to hold a meeting in the conference room in twenty minutes to discuss the information that you brought. Does that work for you?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"Good, because I have a cup of coffee to finish," John said before turning and marching back down the hallway and into the flat.

 

Sherlock was leaning against the bedroom door when John came in, "Problem?"

"I'm handling it," John said before walking over to pick up the mug of coffee that Sherlock had placed on the side table. John's eyes ran up Sherlock's body as he examined his long legs and bare chest. He asked, "Are you wearing any pants?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Take them off," John said.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he looked a bit embarrassed, "John," he began, "while I'm flattered, and I know that we are exceptionally compatible in bed, I thought that we had decided to go slowly with this new...friendship, and to make absolutely sure..."

"It's nothing like that, Sherlock, I just need to have them scan your clothes for bugs."

"Oh, I see," Sherlock said embarrassed for another reason, "I'll just be a moment," he said walking into the bathroom and closing the door. A few minutes later, a pale hand reached out and gave John some dark silk boxers. John piled it on top of the stack of Sherlock's other clothes. "They would be silk wouldn't they, posh git," he said under his breath as the door slammed shut.

 

In the staff meeting, John ignored Carol's worried glances as he replayed the video again. "Where did you say this came from?" he asked.

"Do you remember the raid on the hospital?" she said. "The woman scheduled to have the collar installed."

"Yes," John said remembering with sadness the number of people who had lost their lives that day.

"She was a film maker. She had been too critical of the government, so she had been scheduled for the collar. She made this, and she said that she will make as many videos as we need to convince people that what the government is doing is wrong."

John looked at the image on the screen of a beautiful young girl skipping rocks and smiling. Then officers dragged her away screaming, to return in a brown uniform with a red diamond on the collar saying, ' _yes master_ ' and ' _no master_ ', her eyes rolling back into her head indecently as she cleaned her master's shoes.

Then there was the list of names, ages, and crimes. The real statistics were a far cry from the few condemned murderers that the collar was promised to be used on. More and more people were added to the slave rolls every year, and most of the new ones were young. Some as young as seventeen. John sat back in his chair.

"We can do this," John said. "We can win this war."

"How?" Franklin asked leaning forward. "What does a video have to do with stopping slavery?"

 John sat forward looking them each in the eye. "You may think that the slave owners are our enemy, and that they are the reason that slavery has endured as long as it has, but you are wrong. Our enemy is everyone out there who has turned a blind eye when a slave was beaten. Everyone who has said nothing when their neighbor was taken and sold. It is those people we must attack. Those minds we have to change. This is a battle for the hearts and minds of everyday people. The people who make up this continent, and if we win those minds, slavery will die as surely as the sun will come up in the morning. I want this video distributed everywhere, as widely as we can. Send it to our operatives in the States, and pass it hand to hand across the old networks. We're going to draw up a new battle plan, and by God, this time, I think that we're going to win."


	10. Prejudice

John walked past the metal door and into the flat. Sherlock was dressed now. His coat was on the hook. He lay on his back on the sofa with his feet propped up on the armrest and turned his face lazily toward the door, "I'm bored, John."

"Read a book," John said as he plopped down in a chair.

"I've read them all. Some of them twice. Whoever picked the books in this flat is an idiot. They are all mind numbingly pedestrian."

"I see. Well next time you're made a prisoner, I'll make sure they give you a better reading list."

Sherlock grunted. John turned toward him, "Sherlock! You came here of your own free will, to a place where you are the considered the enemy. I'm sorry that I can't make things more comfortable for you, but since I have given you as good an accommodation as I have. Wait! It's the same accommodation that I have. Can't I, at least, have a little less whining about it?"

Sherlock rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Oh John," he said, "how I envy you."

John's mouth dropped open, and he turned to stare at Sherlock, "You envy me?" he said. "What part exactly do you envy? The part where I was forced to be a slave, humiliated and spat on, or the part where I was kidnapped, put on the most wanted list, and forced to hide in a shelter to avoid teams of assassins?"

"I meant your mind, John. You traipse from one idea to the next like a camel plodding across the desert. Your mind is placid. My mind is a steam engine running out of control. Sitting here in this incredibly boring place with nothing to do is driving me insane. I need work, John!"

John sighed heavily crossing his arms. Then he turned toward Sherlock. "There is something you could do for me."

"What is it? Anything!"

"It would involve working against your brother, Mycroft. Would that bother you?"

Sherlock sat up and smiled. "That would be a positive incentive." John smiled back, and Sherlock's smile widened until the two were laughing freely. Their voices echoing off the walls. 

***

The next day, John had a computer installed in the room. Carol had insisted on a terminal that was only able to receive messages,and not send them. John agreed, refusing to mention to her the half dozen ways that he personally knew to defeat such a system. The fact was that if Sherlock had wanted to contact his brother he could have done so. Sherlock was a genius after all. John knew that he hadn't, because somewhere deep down, John trusted Sherlock. He had trusted him almost from the moment that they had first met in a way that had nothing to do with the collar, and everything to do with the kind of man that Sherlock was.

The next few weeks were some of the most pleasant that John could remember spending with Sherlock. Without the requirement of ordering John about in order to make sure that the collar continued to work, Sherlock reverted to his antisocial ways. Most days he ignored John, rifling through newspapers and searching the internet without so much as a word. John found that he preferred the silence. He found that in the absence of orders, he still liked to make tea for two instead of one. When he fixed himself a snack, he made one for Sherlock as well. It made him happy. It wasn't the same kind of pleasure as with the collar, but it was clean and honest.

Their new war plan was more in the manner of Mycroft Holmes than of John Watson. Influencing people instead of destroying them strangely required more work.

John met with his officers and planned the propaganda campaign. They contacted cells all over Europe and America. The wonderful thing was that since they were no longer blowing up buildings, abolitionists who had always turned their back on their violent ways agreed to help them. Their information network grew tenfold.

The mainstream abolitionist movement was stronger in Europe than in the UK where the British Empire was still heavily dependent on slavery. A proposal to make slavery illegal had been placed on the ballot of the European Alliance, and would be voted on in six months. The UK vote was scheduled to occur in four, as the members states of the EA would each vote to support or refuse the bill.

Sherlock's job was to study each person who would participate in the vote, and find out who might be subject to influence. He sat at his computer looking at videos of the people and cataloging their tells.

John entered the flat to see Sherlock watching the video of a man being interviewed on the news channel. He ran it backwards and forwards. John leaned over to get a better look, and Sherlock said, "He is a smoker. Likes dogs but doesn't have one because his wife is allergic. He has investments in grain which would suggest that he supports the slavery lobby, and that is what most people assume, but he has a sister with multiple drug violations. According to the law, another conviction and she might be collared. That's his point of weakness."

"I'm having a meeting here in three days, I want you to speak at it. Tell us about these people so that we can start working on them."

Sherlock looked up at John. "They aren't going to like it that I'm the one telling them."

"I don't care what they like," John said, "You are our expert, and I want you there."

 

Three days later, John and Sherlock stood examining themselves in the bathroom mirror. Sherlock was wearing a sleek blue suit salvaged from his luggage. John wore a tie and a jacket designed to look vaguely military without evoking the look of the slave collar. John looked at Sherlock's reflection. He looked good. Together, they should be able to handle anything.

 John knocked on the door, and it was opened. They walked down the hall, Sherlock holding a file under his arm. Then they entered an elevator and exited into the secured lower level of a parking garage where they were surrounded by guards as they entered a white van without windows. They started off, sitting in silence as they drove. The guard's eyes constantly strayed to Sherlock with distrust. He returned an expression of extreme disinterest. Sherlock was good at that.

The van pulled into an alley, and they quickly passed into a building. They marched down a carpeted hall and through a door into a conference room. Franklin was already there, and at his side was Casper. John smiled. He was the only one in the room doing so. He looked around the table at the eyes staring at Sherlock. Some held distrust, others fear. One man with scars on his neck that showed that he had once worn the old pain collar looked at Sherlock with open hatred. "What is HE doing here?" the man said. "He's a slaver!"

"He's with me," John said.

"I won't sit at a table with him!" the man said.

"Then stand," John replied. "This is my consultant, Sherlock Holmes. He is an expert in finding information about people, and he will be presenting data at this meeting."

"I won't listen to that... filth!"

John stood then and slapped the table with his hands so that all eyes turned to him. "Listen! We are here to put an end to slavery in Europe. This upcoming election is the best chance that we have had in years. We will not let petty fears and prejudices get in the way of this mission, so sit down and let us begin.

It was a long and grueling meeting, so John was relieved when they finally made it back to the flat. He wiped his eyes, kicked off his shoes and plopped down on the bed fully dressed. Some minutes later Sherlock came in and passed him a cup of tea. "That could have gone better," Sherlock said.

"It went well enough," John said before taking a sip and sighing with relief at the warmth.

"John, perhaps next time you should go without me."

"No," John said, his face hard. "The way they all looked at you today. I recognized it. It was the way that everyone looked at me when I wore the collar. Even if...no when, we get slavery outlawed, that prejudice will remain. I won't allow it here. From now on, I want you to go with me wherever I go. I want them to see the two of us together, and realize that we won't have won until a former stave and his former master can stand in the same room without hate or fear. I want them to realize the fact and not just mouth the words. We ARE equal, no matter what our background."

Sherlock stared at John over the top of his mug. "That's good, John. You should put it in your blog. Much better than that fluff about laundry you wrote before."

John chuckled, and then his face turned serious. "Sherlock, do you think that when this is all over, we might live together again? I mean, as friends?"

Sherlock put his mug down on the counter and climbed onto the bed crossing his legs and placing his palms together as he thought. "Well, Mycroft probably won't let you back into England. Not without placing you in a cell, and his cells are nowhere near as ...comfortable as this one."

"I can imagine. So what will you do then if we succeed?" John said turning to look at Sherlock who gazed back at him. "Will you go back to your flat on Baker street?"

"I imagine so," Sherlock said, "And you, what will you do?"

"I'll still be a wanted man," John said, "I don't think that Mycroft is the type to recall assassins once they've been sent. I suppose that I'll keep running."

"That sounds ...lonely," Sherlock said.

"Well...," John said his voice trailing off. He finished his drink, and turned off the light, snuggling down onto the bed to sleep. Sherlock lay down as well turning his body away from John's.

The sound of gentle breathing filled the dark room. Then Sherlock said, "I could come with you."

John's breathing caught, and then resumed its steady pace as he said, "yeah, I think I'd like that."


	11. Gains and Losses

Two months before the UK election, (Four before the EA one) John sat in his control room, Sherlock stood at his side. On the screens there were live feeds taken from cameras in seven cities in Europe and New York. A person sat in front of each screen wearing a headset. On one of the screens, Big Ben struck noon.

"Roll call, is everyone ready?" John asked. They called out one by one.

"London says yeah."

"Madrid says yeah."

"Helsinki, Yeah."

"New York says Yeah."

"Berlin says Yeah."

"Paris says Yeah."

"Brussels, Yeah."

"Stockholm says yeah."

"Then let's begin."

 

At exactly 12:05, Giant screens ran the latest anti-slavery video. This one was a masterpiece, showing the orphaning of a family due to slavery. It was followed by a list of websites with real names and statistics tailored for each city. Names of neighbors and people that those in the area might have met. It also listed death statistics, because although the collar prevented a person from committing suicide directly, there were ways to die if you really wanted to. The death toll among the recently collared, was high.

 

After the video stopped, there was an explosion of leaflets which rained down from the rooftops sending pamphlets throughout the city. He had chosen the paper himself. A sort of onionskin which flew great distances in the wind. They would be unable to retrieve them all. "Take that Mycroft," John said and Sherlock smirked.

 

Then Franklin rushed in. "Dr. Watson," he said, "I have a message from a Dr. Gunter Litfin for you." He handed a manila envelope to John, who opened it to find a note and a scientific paper. His jaw dropped.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

John looked from the paper to his face, "The end of slavery as we know it."

***

Ten minutes later, John, Sherlock, Carol, Franklin and his assistant Casper, as well as three other officers on staff were sitting in the conference room as John explained.

"The internal collar is difficult to install, and even more difficult to remove. We have former slaves who are in hiding from their masters, and the only thing that keeps them safe is not hearing their master's voice. The "come home" broadcasts that they have instituted to influence slaves still under the collar has lost us over sixty-five of the freed. The reason that we haven't removed more collars is that brain surgery is difficult, time consuming and dangerous. We have a collar removal failure rate of 40%"

"That's awful!" Casper exclaimed.

"Yes it is, that is why we haven't done more of them. But what Dr. Litfin has developed is a technique that could remove the collar with a single injection."

"But how?" Carol asked.

John walked up to the screen. He opened an image that he was all too familiar with. His own former brain scan. "The internal collar has wires which stimulate the pleasure center of the brain. To keep these wires from corroding, they are covered with a special bioplastic insulation. The serum that he has developed attaches to this insulation and marks it to be attacked by the person's immune system."

"You mean?" Sherlock said, " the person's own body can destroy the insulation making the collar fail, and then the wires will corrode?"

"Exactly, but that's not the half of it, " John said. "The beauty is that once the body has learned to fight the collar, it will attack any new implant, so that if the collar is reinstalled the body will destroy it as well."

"So Dr. Litfin has effectively made a cure for the internal collar," Sherlock said.

"Exactly," John said.

"Well that's wonderful!" Carol said.

"Except that cure will never be developed," Sherlock said. "Just as I am sure his paper was never published.

"That's right. Dr. Litfin's funding was removed, and he was threatened with being fired if he did not change his topic. He is in Antwerp now visiting his niece. He is willing to defect to our cause, but only if I go to meet him personally."

Franklin stood. "I'll arrange the transportation."

"Good," John said. "We'll leave first thing in the morning."

 

***

"John. Let me go with you."

"Dr. Litfin said come alone, besides, you're the enemy remember."

"But Mycroft said."

"I know what Mycroft said, and I trust Mycroft's word about as far as I can throw him."

"Which is not very far considering what he eats."

John thrust a box into Sherlock's hands, "Now, here are some things to tide you over in case they forget about you in here."

"Bottled water? John, there are taps, and what's this? A gas mask?"

"I wouldn't put it past Carol to slip something under the door as soon as I'm away. Well, it's about time to go."

"John...be careful," Sherlock said. John saw the concern in Sherlock's face. He leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm tough. I'll be fine, I'll be back soon."

 

 

As John sat in the back of the van on the long ride to the meeting, the bulletproof jacket that Sherlock had insisted he wear pinching the scar tissue in his shoulder, he remembered that brief look of fear that had crossed Sherlock's face as he was leaving. What would happen to Sherlock if he didn't return? Would he still work for the movement, find some way to be useful to them, or would they simply kill him? John couldn't bear to think of it. What would a world be like without him? John couldn't imagine it. Despite everything that had gone on between them, John could not regret meeting Sherlock Holmes.

 

The hotel where Dr Litfin was staying had a bar. John was to sit at the stool one away from the end and order vodka with a twist of lemon. Getting into the building was chore enough. There were cameras on all of the entrances, so John climbed a fence, entering through the pool door, slipping past the camera in a bellhop's coat and hat. He changed in the men's room, pulling a touristy blue jumper over his bulletproof vest. It was a bit unseasonably bulky, but a heavy coat would have been even more suspicious.

The darkened bar was full of mirrors. Mini-spotlights surrounded by shiny gold covers made the room sparkle with tiny circles of light. It gave the place a warm hue. He watched the reflection in the mirrored bar, noticing as a dark-haired man with glasses walked up behind him. The man asked for water.

"Dr Litfin, I presume," John said when the bartender had left.

"Dr. Watson. It is truly you?"

"The same. I've read your paper. It's brilliant! Does the technique really work?"

Dr. Litfin looked around suspiciously. "Yes, it does work," he said. "There are some difficulties in the production of the serum, and there was only one test on an actual human. The other studies were in baboons. In that case, when a second collar was installed after the first dissolved, it was non functional in less than three weeks in ninety percent of the cases."

"You understand that we are very, very interested in your work. We are willing to give you full facilities to research this and as many human subjects to study as you need. All volunteers of course."

"That is all that I would wish. I want to make it possible to remove the collar more easily. It isn't right that there is no safe recourse for those who were collared unjustly. I want to see Justice done, it's just. I'm afraid that I might just...disappear and my work will be gone."

John took a sip of his drink in silence as the bartender returned with Dr. Litfin's water. He waited until he was gone before speaking again. "The quicker we are gone, the safer we will be. Are you ready to go now? I have a car waiting."

The man looked surprised. "Now? I suppose. I just need to get my bag from my room."

"I have already sent someone to retrieve it. I am going to rise and walk out of the bar. Follow me in a few minutes. I will meet you in the lobby. Take a drink if you understand."

Dr Litfin lifted his glass to his mouth with a shaky hand, and took a sip. John downed his vodka, threw some money down on the counter, and left. John waited in the lobby next to the door. He was standing beside a potted tree which gave him a bit of cover. They had picked the spot, because at this time of day the reflection on the hotel windows made it impossible to clearly see inside. He watched as the doctor approached nervously. He spotted John and walked directly toward him. Then a shot rang out.

John fell to the ground looking around for the flash of a sniper's scope. People in the hotel were screaming and running about. John scanned the room noticing the hole in the glass which suggested that the gunman was in the next building. John had not been hit, but as he turned he noticed that Dr. Litfin had been.

John ran across the lobby bending down and pulling Dr. Litfin's body behind a sofa for cover. Dr Litfin had been shot in the chest. John looked for something to stop the bleeding with, ultimately taking a throw pillow and pressing against his chest, but he could see that it was too late. The green pillow was soaked with blood. Too much blood. It stained the pale carpet red.

The doctor was breathing shallowly now. "It's okay, It's okay," John said to calm him, but he shook his head, reaching into his pocket to pull out a ballpoint pen which he placed into John's hand.

He was having difficulty speaking so John bent down. He placed his ear next to the man's mouth as he said a single word, "Win!" Then he died.

 

John turned his face away to shield himself from the disappointment of lost hopes. Then Franklin skidded in beside him crouching behind the couch. "We've got to move!" he said. John slipped the pen into his pocket, and then ran across the lobby with Franklin. The van pulled up, and shots peppered their steps as they jumped in. Casper was already inside holding Dr. Litfin's luggage. "Go, go, go!" Franklin said, and the van rushed away. John put a hand to his eye. "So close. He could have made a real difference in this war."

 

That evening, Sherlock jumped up as John entered. The gas mask falling to the floor. "How did ..." He began, but the look on John's face said it all. John walked into the bedroom and sat on the bed. Sherlock took a look at his dejected face, at his slouching shoulders, and reached out to help him remove his coat. He removed his shoes, the jumper and the bulletproof vest. Then he unbuttoned John's shirt. He stacked everything neatly, and took it into the living room. Then he returned and removed John's socks, and pulled John up to his feet while he undid his trousers.

Sherlock pulled back the sheets on the bed, and pushed John down, covering him with the sheet. Then he tucked the blanket around John and kissed his forehead before walking out and turning off the light.

 

 

Morning came with a full realization of what had happened. John sat up in bed and moaned. He jumped up and pulled on his trousers, before running into the other room to rifle through the clothes until he found the pen. He examined it.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked.

"Dr. Litfin gave it to me before he died," John said twisting the pen and opening it. A vial fell out containing a bright red liquid. Sherlock leaned closer to look at it.

"Is that the serum?" Sherlock asked.

"There is only enough here for one person," John said. "What good is that?"

"What good is that, John, are you mad? You are a doctor. I am a chemist. Between the two of us, we are sure to be able to figure out how to synthesize another batch. The real question we should be asking is how they found out about your meeting in the first place."

There was a quick knock, and the door opened. Franklin stuck his head in. "Sir", he said, "you need to see this."

John and Sherlock stood looking at the image of Mycroft Holmes on the screen. "John," he said, "so nice to see you out and about again. I was wondering if you would ever come out of hiding. Not very like you to be gone so long. I thought that you rather enjoyed danger, but no matter. I am sending this message for a specific purpose. My brother. You have him. I want him back.

"I understand that you may have some sort of ...sentimental attachment that makes you loath to part with him, therefore I am offering you a trade. Harriet!"

The camera view widened and a short blond woman walked onto the screen. It was John's sister, Harry. "Harriet, say hello to your brother," Mycroft said.

"Hello John," she said, and then she sighed as a wave of pleasure hit her. John took two steps toward the screen and then stopped.

"Harriet, take off your shirt."

Harry began to unbutton her shirt. John's hands had rolled into fists and his teeth were gritted. Harriet's shirt fell to the floor revealing a tan colored bra. Mycroft stepped forward then.

"Face me," he said. She turned and then stiffened with pleasure.

"Get down on your knees."

Harry lowered herself in front of Mycroft who looked down at her affectionately and stroked her hair. Then he looked directly into the camera. "I would make some sort of threat, but I think that we understand each other don't we, John? There is a plane leaving from Charles de Gaulle Airport at 8:30am tomorrow. I want Sherlock on that flight. In exchange, I will make sure that your sister finds her way back to you.

I think that you will enjoy the change in her. I do recall you mentioning not getting along? I find her... quite amenable. He looked down to something that was off screen and whispered."Yes my dear, just like that. Good girl." Then he looked up into the screen and narrowed his eyes, the hint of a smile on his lips. "And Sherlock, I look forward to seeing you soon."

 

"I'm going to kill him for that," John said. "I'm going to fucking kill Mycroft Holmes."


	12. Parting

When the video stopped, John started to pace. He could see everyone's eyes watching him. Waiting for him to do something. "John," Sherlock began, but John simply gestured for him to follow before striding down the hall and back into their flat.

As soon as the door was closed, he turned and grabbed Sherlock kissing him fiercely. Sherlock kissed back and when he pulled away he saw tears on John's cheeks. Sherlock cupped John's face in his hands, waiting for John to open his eyes before leaning forward to kiss him.

John reached out and unbuttoned Sherlock's jacket pushing it off, and tossing it across the back of the chair. He grabbed one wrist and then the other undoing his cuffs, before starting in on Sherlock's shirt buttons, running his hands across Sherlock's chest as he pushed it off onto the floor.

Sherlock reached around John's waist pulling off his t-shirt. And they pressed against each other so that their chest hairs mingled, golden brown hairs rubbing past black, while John's arms ran up and down Sherlock's sides, wrapping around his shoulders, touching the edge of his underarm hair to stop on the top of his belted trousers.

Sherlock put his hand to his own belt undoing it and his trousers. Falling to his knees, John pulled them down. John untied Sherlock's shoes, and Sherlock lifted out his legs one after another as John pushed them away. Then John wrapped his arms around the back of Sherlock's legs placing a cheek against his hip. Sherlock ran his fingers through John's short hair, and then noticing John's stillness, he pulled John's arms away, and then sank down to his knees as well.

John's breath was too rapid, coming in gasps as he fought back tears. Sherlock, on the other hand, was calm. He rubbed his hands down the sides of John's arms, and kissed first one cheek and then the other. John buried his head in his chest, and Sherlock's arms flung around to hold him.

"I can't, I can't," John said.

"You can't what?"

"I can't lose you now. We're just ...starting. I can't."

Sherlock tilted his head to look at John whose eyes were scrunched shut. Then Sherlock pulled John to his feet and walked him over to the couch. Side by side they sat, arms wrapped around each other with John's head over Sherlock's heart. Finally, John spoke.

"I had hoped that we'd have time," John said. "Time together to learn about each other. To meet as equals, friends. To become what we were meant to be. But it looks like we won't."

"I'll come back. After this has all blown over," Sherlock said. "Later..."

"Later? When is later? In another life, perhaps? I can't go back to England, and he'll find a way to keep you there in London. No. This is it, and I don't even have the whole night with you, to say goodbye."

Sherlock bent over and took John's chin in his hand kissing him gently on the lips. "I'll stay. This serum is too important to give up on now. He won't kill Harry. She's the only leverage that he has left."

John pulled away from him then wiping tears from his eyes. His voice becoming deeper. "You forget, Sherlock, I've been Mycroft's slave. He was the one who broke me. I know more than anyone what he is capable of. You say that I'm strong. Well, Harry's not, and he has her. I'd like there to be something left of my sister when he finally gives her back. No, Sherlock, you have to go."

"I know," Sherlock said.

 They sat in silence. Then John reached out and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock did not resist when John led him into the bedroom.

 

John and Sherlock sat crosslegged on the bed. Sherlock reached out and ran a finger down John's chest slowly categorizing the reactions of his skin before doing it again one inch to the left. For a time, John simply gazed at Sherlock. He reached out to touch a mole on his neck, and Sherlock's head bent toward him, melting into his touch.

John had never felt so confused in his life. Sherlock was an enigma, a contradiction. One minute he said that he had no interest in sex, and the next he was purring like a kitten under John's hands.

John took one of Sherlock's wrists and brought it to his lips. He breathed in Sherlock's scent. He had bounced a riding crop in this very hand the evening after John's first escape attempt, glaring down at him with a cold expression before hitting him so hard that he had welts on his legs for days. He said that it was for a case. _"If I am forced to punish you, I might as well get some useful data from the process. Two birds, one stone.”_ John had been angry for days afterward, despite the fact that Sherlock said that this data had saved a man from the collar.

John ran a finger over Sherlock's pale, plush lips. That mouth had kissed him hundreds of times. It had also yelled out, _"heel"_ causing John to fall to the floor in excruciating pain the day that he had found out about Sarah.

When he had asked Sherlock to help him to bring down slavery, he had worked his hardest to help John, yet this was the same man who, in a fit of anger had yelled, "I _like_ owning you." John should be happy to see him go, but he was not. Life before Sherlock had been bleak and pointless. Sherlock had taught him to see. To observe the world around him, and one of the things that he could see most clearly is that he needed Sherlock, and Sherlock needed him.

Sherlock rubbed his palm over John's nipples and down to rest at the small of his waist. The other touched the scar on John's shoulder. John lifted himself to his knees and crawled forward over Sherlock who lay back under him, his thumb still caressing the scar as John leaned down to kiss his neck. The tip of his tongue drawing a line from the external carotid artery to the base of his ear. Sherlock hummed in appreciation.

John looked down on this beautiful, impossible, contradictory man, and realized that he wasn't contradictory at all. Everything that he had done, the good and the bad had been driven by Sherlock's compassion for him. Even the punishments and humiliation had been to prepare him for Mycroft's tests.

He had commanded that John not leave the flat in order to prevent him from passing notes to Sarah. He had done it anyway. A foolish action that had resulted in the death of everyone in the French resistance cell. He had resisted ordering John around until he realized that the pleasure helped to insulate John from the pain of what he was asked to do. Even Sherlock accepting him as a slave in the first place had been driven by concern over Mycroft's mistreatment of him.

In fact, virtually everything that Sherlock had done for him had showed his love for John. And they had been together only days before John had felt a similar compassion for Sherlock.

John lowered himself onto Sherlock's chest wishing that he could somehow sink inside him. He wanted to fuse with him and make one person so that they could never be parted. Together always, the way that his heart knew they were meant to be. It was the world that separated them. That gave them labels that kept them apart: Master. Slave. Slaveowner. Abolitionist.

Now Mycroft Holmes was pulling them apart. Had he let Sherlock come to John only to rip him away again? Why was Mycroft so obsessed with causing John pain? He wished that he had never met him, but then he would not have met Sherlock. Life was like that. The good and bad were mixed together so that he couldn't give up one without losing the other.

They decided that it was best that John remain behind. Mycoft might try to take him again if he came into reach, so John lay in his bed staring at the plain brown wall as Sherlock leaned over him to say goodbye. He felt a kiss on his cheek, but he didn't turn to look. How could he let him go if he did.

He relented when he heard the sound of the door opening. Running into the living room just as the door was closing, he caught a glimpse of his great coat and the gleam of Sherlock's eye as he glanced back at him just before the metal door slammed shut.

 

Harry arrived a day later. She ran to him, and gave him a hug, and when he told her to sit down, she sat, leaning her head back in pleasure. Mycroft had passed over her ownership to John. It was one of his jokes, no doubt, to make John a slave owner. One more chance to cause John pain, having his own sister cry out in ecstasy when he ordered her about. That man so deserved to die.

 

The first thing that John did was to move out of the bunker. Mycroft surely had an idea where it was now, or he would not have been able to arrange for Sherlock's flight and Harry's delivery. They set up a new base in Switzerland and continued their work.

Despite the personal set backs, the Cause had never went so well. Officials came out publicly to state their opposition to the collar. The legality of collaring for minor crimes was brought before the courts. The real miracle occurred when, despite expectation, the UK and the Crown territories approved the measure to make slavery illegal. Then two months later, the European Alliance ratified the law.

 There was much cheering when the decision was announced, and that former slave who had so abused Sherlock fell on the floor in front of everyone and cried. John stood still amidst the chaos, his emotions strangely muted. This great task was done, yet there was still one other thing that he had left to do.


	13. Freedom

Mycroft Holmes sat alone in his darkened office, his desk lamp the only thing illuminating the brown carpet and the red curtains that seemed too plain and ordinary for a man who held so much power.

John was watching him through the open door from the darkened secretary's office. It had taken an incredible amount of effort for him to get here. Sneaking into England. Gaining entry to this government building despite the cameras and security. Finding a time and place when Mycroft Holmes would be vulnerable. Avoiding being seen when his face was plastered everywhere: On signs listing the Crown's most wanted criminals as well as signs celebrating him as the man who freed the slaves.

He watched as Mycroft rubbed his eyes, before closing the paper file folders on his desk and placing them in a drawer. John tightened his grip on his Browning and moved closer to the door, waiting for him to get clear of the desk before shooting.

The city was quiet. A breeze blew in through the partially opened window. Mycroft sat up in his chair. "Hello John," he said. "I've been expecting you. Pull up a chair."

Surprised, John started. Then he walked slowly into the center of the room. The dim light from the desk lamp glinting off of the tip of his gun as he trained it on Mycroft's heart. "I'd rather stand," he said.

Mycroft looked up at John and smiled. "So, John, how does it feel to have finally won? Slavery is vanquished and justice is served. You must be happy."

"There are still some things left to do before justice is served," John said.

"Such as revenge? How conventional. I wouldn't have expected it of you, John. You were always something better than the average terrorist."

"I'm sorry to disappoint."

"Are you really? If you must know, John, you have never disappointed me, although I had hoped that you might visit me sooner."

"I'm not here to visit. I've come to kill you, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled saying, "And I would expect nothing less from you. Such an honorable man. I’ve cast myself as the villain in this drama after all. That is what happens to the villain. He comes to an untimely end.

"I've been dealing with the mess caused by this new law of yours. I've been in meetings all day long, answering question after question. _What about those who owned slaves, were they to be considered criminals now? Would the law only affect new slaves or all slaves? How would those with the collar be fixed? Could they be commanded not to have a master? Who will harvest the grain and run the factories?_ _It's exhausting._ Do you have any idea what the costs are for collar reversal operations alone? It's times like these that make me regret the death of Dr Litfin. His serum would have made this so much easier. Where is it by the way? He did give you a sample?"

"Half of it is in Vienna. They are working on making more. The other half I gave to my sister to rid her of that evil collar you installed."

"Oh, did it work? I would have loved to have seen that. If it is any consolation to you, John, I did not have your sister do anything particularly ...indecent when she was under my power. It was all for show. You should know that you are the only one for me."

John smirked and pulled the gun a bit closer to his chest, "I'm just glad that I get to see your face after you've lost. Abolition came despite you."

"But John, I told you before, I've been working to end slavery since I was a child."

"You could have fooled me," John said. "You told me that only the worst criminals would wear the internal collar, but you lied. You're a hypocrite. You could have prevented those laws that expanded the use of the collar but you did not. Do you deny it?"

"I have no wish to deny it. I did it on purpose."

"I see."

"Do you, really? By spreading the collar to average people, I changed the meaning of the word ' _slave_ '. A slave was no longer something close to an animal, born in filth to die in filth. Something to hate. By spreading the collar, I made slavery a misfortune of chance. When people could see the possibility that they might become a slave, then they were able to see our point of view."

"Our point of view? You act as if you and I were on the same side."

"But we are. I made you, John Watson. You are my greatest creation. You are what I needed, what I wanted, what I could never be, an idealistic leader, imaginative, clever, strong, yet with enough flexibility not to break under the great pressures I must put you through. I chose you from all of the others. Went to Oregon to get you, because I knew that you would be the one to lead the Abolitionists to victory."

"Are you saying that you made me a slave to make me a better fighter?"

"Of course. What were you doing before? Blowing up a building here, freeing a few slaves there. Your methods were crude and mostly ineffective, but after years as a slave, you changed. You were able to express your compassion. The compassion that compelled you to become a doctor in the first place. You stopped the killing and began influencing people, and because you had been a slave, your words carried so much more weight. Why do you suppose that I allowed you to be abducted? Why did I make my best doctors available for your surgery? Because I wanted you in charge."

"Are you saying that you picked me to lead the abolitionists?"

"Of course, John. The best way to win at a game of chess is to play on both sides. You were my king, and you played better than I could have imagined. I never guessed that you and Sherlock would work so well together. You can get him to do things that he would never do for me."

"Then why did you take him from me? It was to prevent us from recreating the serum, wasn't it?"

"Alas no, although that was an added benefit. I couldn't have that serum coming out too soon. It would have ruined everything. No, the reason that I called Sherlock back is because he was close to discovering my agent in your camp. I couldn't have that."

John stood straighter, "Agent? who is it?"

"I suppose that there's no harm in telling you now. Isn't that what villains are supposed to do, admit the details of their plans to the hero? My agent is someone that you picked with your own hand. The one who told me that you were coming to see me tonight."

"Casper,"

"Yes, Casper Engel. That oh so clever boy in the factory. I knew that you would like him."

"So, everything I've done was part of your plan? What will happen to your plan then, when I kill you?"

"I hardly know, John. I suppose that I will become little more than a footnote, while your name will be emblazed across the history books as a great hero. That is the way with people like me. Look back and you will find behind any great act, some minor official who is truly running the show, while others take the credit and the blame. We have our brief bit of power. We change the course of civilization only to have our names washed away in the sea of time."

"Are you trying to make me pity you?"

"No, not really. I am simply enjoying our time together. It has been so long since we've seen each other. Even so, I would prefer it if you did not kill me."

"Is this fear? Is the great Mycroft Holmes afraid?"

"No, it's just that I still have things that I wish to accomplish in this lifetime. It would be a shame if they were left undone."

John looked down at the man sitting in front of him. The man who had bent him and broken him in the name of freedom for all. Yes, he believed that what he said was true. That didn't stop him from hating the man, but he began to doubt whether killing him was right.

  
  


Mycroft looked up into John's eyes spreading his fingers across the surface of the desk as he pushed himself to his feet. John followed his movements with his gun as he walked around the desk toward him. "Would you like me to beg?" Mycroft said before lowering himself to his knees and bowing his head, "Please, John. Please don't kill me."

John's lip curled up in disgust. A man should stand to be shot, not crawl on the floor like a dog. No one deserved that. John put the safety on the gun and slipped it into the belt of his trousers. "I won't shoot you now," he said, "for Sherlock's sake. Go on and rule the world. But whatever it is you are planning, leave me and Sherlock out of it."

Mycroft rose to his feet in front of John. He smiled down at him, his smooth voice returning. "Of course," he said. "You have certainly earned your retirement. When you do finally make your way to find my brother again as I know that you will, you will find that all of the charges against you have been dropped, and your citizenship status has been reinstated. It is the least that I could do for someone who has...done so much for me."

John glared up at Mycroft's too smug face. He was standing close to him now. Close enough to smell the cloyingly sweet scent of Mycroft's cologne. "You don't know how much I want to kill you right now," John said.

"I can imagine," Mycroft replied. His hands lifting from his sides until they boxed John in without touching him. "My own feelings are quite the opposite."

John Watson began to shudder. By all that is right, he should have killed this man. He knew that kneeling was a simple trick designed to save his skin by appealing to John's honor. The man was the very definition of manipulative, but John would not kill him if it would cause his brother the smallest amount of pain.

John found that his breathing had slowed, and he was feeling a bit dizzy. His head fell back, and he sighed only to find Mycroft's hands on his arms holding him up. His mouth whispered in John's ear. "You can't imagine how hard it was for me to give you up. To let my brother have you when I wanted you so much. Do you remember, when I told you to seduce my brother or I would take you myself. I wanted you to fail. My brother was so shy. I did not think that he was capable, but I was a fool to underestimate your attractiveness.

"I never wanted to release you from my service, but the plan wouldn't work unless you hated me. Of the many sacrifices that I have made for my country, I count this as one of the greatest. That while you wore the collar, I did not have sex with you. I would have commanded you over and over. I would have driven you mad until you could not stand in the same room with me without lust overtaking you.

"No one has ever attracted me as you have. I am not a man known for physical passions, but when I read the words that you wrote about your experiences with Sherlock, I could not help but want that for myself. You are the most amazing contradiction. The compassion of a doctor with the ruthlessness of a soldier. How could I ever be angry with you? Even if you had killed me, it would have been a pleasure because it would have been by your hand.

"I know that what I ask is impossible. I know that people like me have traded away happiness to gain power, but I must ask you. Please, John Watson, please let me have you."

John's head was swimming and his knees felt weak. He was only standing because Mycroft was holding him up pressed against his body. He was kissing his neck now. Slow deep kisses just on the point of bruising. The mound of a persistent erection was pushing against his abdomen. The clock outside of the window struck two, and John wondered why this was happening.

Was it conditioning? He had been in their power for a long time. So many things had been done to him, by Mycroft, by Sherlock. Sherlock had only to look down on him to make him surrender. Mycroft was of a similar height. Could it be some series of motions that overcame his will? It was possible.

But then John remembered. He hadn't felt tired when he entered the room, or when he pointed the gun at Mycroft. He had felt satisfaction then. It wasn't until Mycroft came over and knelt at his feet that he had felt powerless to resist his advances.

Mycroft cupped his hand on the front of John's trousers as he looked down on him with open want. His other arm was wrapped around John's waist holding him up. Soon John would fall to the ground. He knew what would happen if he did. Mycroft Holmes would take him on the floor.

' _It was the cologne,'_ John thought, _'I felt weak after I smelled his cologne. It must be drugged. He knew that I was coming, and he prepared for this.'_ John breathed out and spread his legs standing on his own power. He put a hand to Mycroft's chest and pushed him away.

"Mycroft, maybe I was yours once, a slave, and maybe you even conditioned me to fear you, to want you, to do what you say. Maybe you made me, influencing me to do the things that you wanted, maneuvering me into positions to do your will. I agree that you have had power over me in the past. But I am a free man. I am able to make my own decisions. I am making one now. I am saying, No!"

"But John..." Mycroft said reaching out to him. John staggered back.

"You once told me that you cared deeply about me," John said, "I didn't believe it then, but I ask you. If you have any feeling for me, then give me some respect. I've learned to look past the rules of the world. To disregard the labels that people place on each other and try to see people for who they are. Maybe deep inside you, there is something human, some kind of heart, but it will not be me who finds it. I don't want you. I love another. I'm leaving now. Goodbye."

John turned and walked out of the office closing the door behind him. In the hallway, he took a moment to lean against the wall and breathe until the poison was out of his lungs. Then he left the building, walking away on his own to avoid Casper who was waiting in a car for him. He moved through the streets of London, that even in the middle of the night were not deserted, until he came to a familiar doorway. He reached behind the number for the hidden key and unlocked the door, climbing the steps one by one until he reached the landing. Then he pushed open the door and entered the flat on 221B Baker street.

 

The room was dark, but the lamplight streaming through the window illuminated a slim figure in a white shirt and black trousers. He turned toward the door and smiled.


End file.
